The Days of Peleg

by Jon Saboe

  Thaxad grunted with disgust, and propelled him by his elbow in a straight line for about forty meters until finally Peleg saw what he was pointing to.

  A speck of light slowly resolved into a small campfire, and as they approached, they left the canopy of the cabbage tree forest behind them. Soon they could see the singing figures silhouetted by the flames and centered against the vastness of the plains beneath the expanse of stars—which were slightly dimmed by the fire’s flickering and smoke.

  Thaxad let go of his arm and whispered, “Wait! We don’t want to startle them.” He almost smiled. “They are sure to be armed, and won’t take kindly to us sneaking up on them.”

  “What should we do?” asked Peleg.

  “We shall return to the trees, and make contact in the morning.”

  Peleg nodded.

  They turned to go, but before they completed their move, two small loops of rope descended from the night sky, brushed past their ears, and tightened securely around each of their necks. Peleg was pulled backwards, choking, as two men approached him from behind. One was holding the noose tightly and proceeded to kick Peleg’s legs out from under him, forcing him to drop onto his kneecaps. The other man attached a second cord to the first one encircling his neck, allowing both men to control his movements and strangle him at will. Through his tearing eyes, he saw that Thaxad had his own two counterparts who were performing the same operation.

  The singing had abruptly stopped, and soon they were dragged before the fire and forced to buckle down on their knees, bowing until their faces were in the dirt. As the cord continued to cut into his neck, Peleg could feel the heat of the nearby fire scorching the left side of his face and singeing his hair.

  He turned his face sideways and saw a man with large, neatly twisted hair-knots leaning over him. He was speaking loudly with the others, and, to Peleg, it sounded similar to the language of Kemet—with enough differences to make it difficult to follow. The man was addressing one of the men holding his cords, and was not looking at him. Peleg twisted his neck to get a better view, and was stunned at what he saw.

  On the man’s cheek was the same brownish-red upside-down tear-shaped tattoo that Thaxad bore. He turned his head to the other side and saw Thaxad lying across from him with his face also in the campfire’s ash. He caught the Mentor’s eye and motioned with his eyebrows to look at the man standing over them.

  Thaxad arched his back and looked at their captor, but did not see the tattoo until the man turned toward him. When he did, Thaxad gave a look of such utter shock that Peleg thought, This is worth it all just to see Thaxad stunned about something.

  Thaxad opened his mouth, coughed out some dust, and then shouted.

  “Dōgon!”

  All conversation abruptly stopped, and the man spun his head around to look down at Thaxad.

  In the sudden silence he stared down into Thaxad’s face which was glistening with sweat in the firelight. He approached slowly, then reached down and grabbed a large chunk of Thaxad’s long, soot-filled hair, pulling his face up to stare directly into his.

  His eyes bored into Thaxad’s while the Mentor’s face pleaded for recognition in return. Slowly he lifted Thaxad by the hair, allowing him to rise to his knees.

  He opened his mouth and eventually a one-word question emerged.

  “Tarshish?”

  Thaxad nodded and proceeded to rise to his feet. There was no attempt to stop him.

  “Yes,” Thaxad continued. “I was known by that name before the time of the Great Confusion. I am commissioned with the Citadel of Ur, now, and am called Thaxad.”

  “Where have you come from?” asked the man, who apparently was named Dōgon. “There are no other men this far west. We are the first to arrive here.” He was obviously incredulous to find other humans in this region.

  “We come from the sea, about three days west of here.” Thaxad was now fully standing, which forced Dōgon to tip his head slightly upward.

  Dōgon looked slightly startled, but pleased.

  They were speaking in the language of Kemet, but the dialect was difficult for Peleg, and he was sure he would be unable to follow once the conversation moved from the current simple introductions.

  “May I please stand?” Peleg ventured.

  He was still pressed into the ground, and now realized that the pressure in his lower back was caused by someone’s knee holding him down. He swore he could smell his smoldering split ends.

  “This is my companion, Chief Peleg,” said Thaxad, pointing down to Peleg. “He is a Chief Cartographer and Master Navigator.”

  Dōgon looked down at Peleg, as if for the first time, and motioned for his men to release him. Peleg rose, and soon he and Thaxad were rubbing their necks where the cords had bit into them and brushing the dirt and ash off of their clothing. They were now welcomed enthusiastically, and offered seats next to the fire.

  “Have some drink,” beamed the now friendly Dōgon. He handed each of them a large carved wooden cup which Peleg soon discovered was filled with a hot alcoholic ale. It was very potent and seemed to be made from apples.

  He thought, It’s amazing how all societies seem to master the technologies of fermentation.

  “How did you know we were out there?” asked Peleg innocently. This elicited several snickers from around the campfire, and finally one young man answered.

  “We smelled you when you left the trees.”

  ‘That’s right,” said another. “We weren’t sure what kind of creatures you might be.” He looked around at his compatriots and grinned. “You two could sure use a bath.”

  Laughter erupted from all sides, and Peleg started to defensively try and explain how they had been hiking and camping for several days, but ultimately thought better of it.

  These men called themselves Fulani or ranchers, and they claimed to be herding over one hundred twenty head of cattle, and several dozen sheep, goats, and gazelles. There were fifteen of them, including Dōgon, and they all sported long, thickly braided hair, and several of the men had an assortment of bird feathers woven into the strands.

  It was soon apparent that Dōgon was not actually one of the ranchers, but rather he owned or managed a number of Fulani teams like this one. He was currently traveling with this group to complete his own survey of these distant western lands. He was also dressed somewhat finer, with a leather sash, and a great deal of jewelry stitched into his clothing and piercing his ears.

  They were all seated on the ground with their legs stretched out in front of them, leaning back on small piles of rock, fallen logs, or equipment packs. Some domesticated herding-wolves nosed around, apparently intrigued by the newcomers. Soon several of the men resumed their singing, and now that Peleg had a linguistic frame of reference, he could identify the melismatic, if not completely polyphonic nature of this unusual rich and evocative choral music.

  Dōgon and Thaxad were now talking rapidly like old friends, and Peleg found it increasingly difficult to follow. In addition to the eccentric dialect, they also used many terms that Peleg had never heard and, like old friends, much of their conversation was based in allusion and shared experiences, so he soon gave up deciphering their conversation and simply tried to listen for words he might recognize.

  Besides, it was now almost two hours before dawn, and the combination of strong apple beer and sleepless fatigue began to take its toll. With his head laid back against a slab of rock, he listened as their conversation seemed to shift among a variety of subjects which, if his translations were correct, included petrochemistry, the Dog Star, the Great Awakening, planets, and (oddly) several intense discussions about rainbows. These were interlaced with his own drowsy half-dreams, and he kept flitting in and out of consciousness as the ale and firelight conspired to increase his delusions.

  He jerked awake suddenly when he thought he heard Dōgon say something that sounded like, “…female seed will crush the dragon’s head…” and he cursed silently at his obviously flawed translatio
n. Nevertheless, these nonsense words kept echoing in his mind as he finally slipped into a deep, if slightly delirious, sleep.

  “Arise, you sluggard!”

  Thaxad was standing over him, prodding him with his boot.

  Peleg rubbed his eyes and noted groggily that it was almost noon. His back and neck ached from sleeping against the rocks, but worse was the pounding in his skull which was exacerbated by Thaxad’s bark.

  He shook his head and got to his feet, but was startled to see that there was no sign of Dōgon or the Fulani. In fact, other than a small circular space of sand and ash, and areas of trampled grass, there was nothing to indicate that anyone else had been there the night before.

  “Where did they all go?” asked Peleg.

  “They left at sunrise,” was Thaxad’s response. “I can’t believe you slept through the noise. The wolves made quite a racket as they rounded up the herd. Dōgon has a fine collection of cattle. They were all sleeping in the clearing over there.” He pointed to the grassy plateau across from the forest they had exited the previous night.

  Peleg looked back at the cabbage trees, when suddenly the importance of the night’s activities hit him.

  “I am amazed that we met someone you actually knew,” he stated with a shake of his head. “Captain Phaxâd should be impressed.”

  Thaxad almost smiled, but was resolutely unimpressed.

  “No matter where we go, it is inevitable that the people we meet will be our relatives,” he said with a shrug.

  They wrapped their belongings, and prepared to leave.

  “Are we heading back to the Urbat?” asked Peleg.

  “In a day or two,” answered Thaxad. He pointed to some ridges to the north.

  “I’d like to survey some of that terrain before we return.”

  They walked in silence for several minutes until Thaxad suddenly stopped and looked down at Peleg.

  “I don’t believe we should mention this encounter to anyone on the Urbat,” he said.

  Peleg looked up in shock with a fierce “why not?” shooting from his eyes. He said nothing, silently demanding that Thaxad explain himself.

  “The majority of the Urbat’s crew,” Thaxad continued, “are motivated by the glory they will receive when they sail into port, twelve years after embarking on the Great Discovery. Even now they are rebuilding with fervor in hopes that they will resume their expedition with enough time to travel around this continent and arrive on schedule.”

  He paused as Peleg waited for any forthcoming relevance.

  “They still perceive that they are a world away from civilization, and could never imagine an alternate method of returning home. However, if they were to suddenly realize that they could simply walk home in a matter of months, or that they are mere weeks away from Minoan or Kemetian outposts, there might be several men who would abandon us or perhaps even mutiny for the chance to see their loved ones sooner. They could also decide that the risks of sea-travel were too great—given the option of a faster, safer route home.”

  Peleg nodded as comprehension began to sink in.

  “If this happened,” Thaxad continued. “It could jeopardize the entire mission. We can’t afford to lose valuable men. And besides, we owe a great deal to Captain Phaxâd. He should not be deprived of the honor which is due him.”

  Peleg reluctantly agreed and said, “I suppose you’re right. The men probably don’t need to have a clear idea of where they are.”

  He paused and grinned.

  “And the Captain’s wife certainly doesn’t need to know,” he said with a laugh, waiting for the serious Mentor to agree with him.

  Thaxad just glared at him, however, and Peleg felt rebuffed and embarrassed. It is never fun to laugh alone.

  “Make sure you take good notes,” said Thaxad finally. “You should be able to write a fine account of your travels and publish them.”

  He looked into Peleg’s eyes with a little less ferocity.

  “I hope you are at least planning on making some money from all of this.”

  The annexation had gone smoothly. The people had even welcomed the great “Unifier of the Plains” who had promised trade expansion, a common currency, and greater protection from unknown and unspecified enemies. Great parades with streamers and palm branches greeted the occupying troops, and the populace seemed unconcerned or unaware that their status had suddenly been changed from citizens to subjects.

  Sargon had returned. But High Minister Inanna was greatly disturbed as she finished reading this latest letter of instruction from her father.

  Sargon was aware of Reu-Nathor’s Great Discovery, and he knew that vessels would soon be returning from their twelve-year expeditions.

  So far, Inanna had readily complied with her father’s wishes concerning unification, as they had helped solidify her position and influence. But this written request was an unexpected blow, and she feared she might have to disobey him for the first time.

  She re-read the pertinent portion again:

  These returning ships may contain information, wealth, and discoveries which the people might not be able to assimilate. We cannot afford to allow anything to reach our subjects before we have had a chance to review it and determine the potential benefits or risks to our subordinates.

  Effective immediately, I want discrete blockades set up to intercept any returning ‘Great Discovery’ vessels, and all crewmembers are to be quarantined in isolation until I can personally interrogate each one.

  As the ships return, no one is to know they have arrived. When and if it is appropriate, their return will be announced after all debriefing has been completed. Please make arrangements to fulfill this request.

  The letter finished with declarations of thanks and appreciation for how dutifully she had carried out all of his previous requests, certified by his cylinder-seal which depicted him extending authority to his daughter. Winged watchers, reminiscent of the ancient Semyaz, stood to the side holding a canopy, endorsing his reign.

  She shook her head, dismayed. How could she do this to her people? Didn’t Knowledge belong to everyone? Besides, to a great extent, her swift rise to power had been built on their trust in her.

  She looked up from her scroll as she heard her husband’s namesake toddling down the hall. She smiled to greet little Tammuz as he came around the corner. He was almost two, now, but as yet had spoken very little. However, when she saw him, a cold sweat broke out along her back.

  Her son was glaring at her with eyes far beyond his years, and she choked down the panic as it rose in her chest when she recognized the gaze.

  Almost three years ago those same eyes had peered into her soul when Dumuzi had carried her up the stairs on the evening when this child had been conceived.

  Was it possible? The Sisterhood of Lilith taught that little Tammuz was the great Mentor Salah/Dumuzi reborn, and Inanna had never discouraged this for political reasons. However, nothing before this had ever made her doubt her disbelief.

  Tammuz marched confidently towards his mother, who bent down to meet him; but there was no recognition in his eyes.

  “Tammuz?” she asked hesitantly, then fearfully, “Dumuzi?” She offered her hand.

  The boy did not take it, but merely spoke. The pitch and enunciation was that of a two-year old, but the syntax was not.

  “You must do as your father has instructed you.” He tipped his head slightly, confidently awaiting her acquiescence.

  She sank to her knees, stunned. Her mind spun as she wondered how he could know of the letter. Tammuz couldn’t even read. She closed her eyes and shook her head.

  A soft hand touched her shoulder, and the boy’s voice said, “Ishrah…”

  Her heart jumped as she heard the private pet name Salah used to call her. She jerked her terrified eyes open and saw the most loving, tender look she had ever seen, peering from her son’s face—the look Salah had reserved for her when they were first married.

  She continued to stare into his eyes
when suddenly little Tammuz blinked. His demeanor instantly returned to that of a normal child, and he giggled with the hearty abandon of any two year old. He turned to run away, but suddenly noticed his mother’s face and reached out a pudgy hand.

  “Don’t cry, Mommy,” he said, with concerned bewilderment on his face.

  She brushed away tears that she hadn’t realized were there.

  “I’m fine,” she said, and reached to hug him.

  His little arms went around her neck, and they embraced on the floor for several minutes.

  Just before they released, he asked one final question.

  “Will I ever see my Daddy?”

  Chapter 30

  Fate

  “All things may work together for the best, but who is entitled to define ‘best’?”

  The Urbat had weathered many storms during the past eleven years, but none with the ferocity and rage which currently pounded her from all sides. The ship was designed with the standard thirty by five by three ratio which all cargo ships (and those meant for long voyages) used in their configuration. No one quite knew who had arrived at these numbers, but the benefit was a ship that tended to right itself when accosted by large waves. The drawback was a vessel which was less maneuverable, but in storms such as this, maneuverability was the least of their worries.

  Untash had once tried to explain how this design gave the vessel a “breadth to depth ratio” of one and two-thirds. If this ratio was lower (such as a passenger or fishing vessel), the ride would be smoother; but the self-righting would begin too late—after the deck was far under water. A larger ratio, and there would be too much strain on the hull. He then launched into a litany of math and geometry concerning keels, center of balance, draft, and a variety of hull calculations.

  None of which mattered now. The pounding waves and gale force winds continued to slam the Urbat, which was now sealed up and totally at the mercy of the tempest. The oar-ports were closed, and no attempt at navigation or steering was possible. As near as Peleg could determine, this storm had already lasted over five days, now, and it seemed to be propelling them (on the average) in a northerly direction.